Tess swallowed and hugged herself.
Here in the back of the warehouse, away from the hot lights, there was a chill in the air.
"He... he hangs out at a bar on Rush Street," she told him. "A place called Jimmy Kidd's. Right next to a massage parlor called Sheba's. They're both part of the same operation."
"Why would Owens go there?"
"He'd feel safe there if he was scared and on the run. Jimmy and Sheba would see to that. And he sure looked scared when he hauled ass on his way out of here. Ran right past me!"
"Jimmy and Sheba. They own the setup?"
A nod of the dark head.
"They run the place. I think Randy's real boss is that Mr. Parelli."
Bolan took a step closer to her at that statement.
She flinched but stayed where she was, clutching the wrap to her throat.
"What do you know about Parelli?"
"He's been here," Tess answered in a strained voice. "I don't know if I should talk about him..."
"Tess, have they ever filmed kid porn here?"
She forgot her fear and her eyes flashed angrily at him.
"Look here, whatever the hell your name is, I do this sort of thing for the cameras once in a while when I'm short on the rent, okay? I'm not a pervert."
"Do you know of any films like that being shot here?"
She cooled down a little.
"I... never heard about it. I wouldn't have worked for those creeps if I had. They were weird enough as it was!"
Bolan quickly assimilated the things the woman told him.
Tess could be lying about Owens's leaving the warehouse. He could still be hiding out somewhere in the building, if not on this floor then on one of those above. He just as quickly rejected those thoughts. The woman's manner and the sounds he'd heard of a car starting up just after Owens had fled, made him decide Tess was speaking the truth about the porno director having fled.
Bolan started past Tess, toward the outside metal door. "Take your friends and go," he advised her on his way out.
She hurried away in search of her friends, Babs and Rudy.
Bolan looked around, taking in the surroundings.
A few incendiary grenades would do the trick and send Parelli's warehouse up like kindling, but to do that Bolan would have to wait and make sure that the three actors were safely away, and he could not afford to waste the time.
He still had an appointment with Randy Owens at a bar called Jimmy Kidd's, next to a massage parlor called Sheba's.
Bolan pushed through the doorway, into the bitter cold.
Outside, the night was waiting.
8
Randy Owens was scared.
He parked his Lancia one block away from Jimmy Kidd's, the closest space he could find in the after-show crush. His legs were shaky as he hurried along the sidewalk toward the bar. He could not get that awful image out of his mind, the way that Bolan guy had looked when Randy and Carson came out of the office.
Owens had not even considered doing anything except running. And he had not looked back. He didn't want to know.
All he wanted now was a drink and a place to hide out for a while. He thought about calling Denise when he got inside, then the ache in his groin reminded him that maybe it wasn't such a great idea, not after what had happened earlier at the house. It had been bad enough after he and Denise Parelli had forced their way out of the closet where Bolan had stashed them.
Randy still felt queasy from the knee in his crotch and from being knocked unconscious by Bolan, but he did have enough presence of mind to realize he was on the Parellis' hit list as well as Bolan's.
The realization made him feel worse. He fought off the panic that threatened to take control.
A biting wind stung his face as he hurried toward the entrance of Jimmy Kidd's.
A flashing neon sign above the door announced the name of the place, but that was the only decoration on the squat little brick building.
The bar was only one side of the building. Next door housed Sheba's.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door and was glad when it swung softly shut behind him. He shuddered briefly. And it was not only from the cold. Sure, it felt good to be out of the chill wind, but it felt even better to be where Bolan would not find him.
Jimmy supplied his barmen with shotguns, which were kept under the bar. All of the employees in Jimmy's and Sheba's were well acquainted with handling trouble and not just obnoxious drunk trouble, either. The bartenders also carried handguns tucked under their aprons. Many high-ranking mobsters frequented Jimmy Kidd's. They had to feel secure here. They wouldn't have it any other way.
The pub was low-ceilinged and paneled with dark wood, creating an atmosphere that was supposed to be cozy but that actually bordered on the claustrophobic.
The closed-in feeling was just what Owens wanted, he realized. He seemed safer, somehow, than being outside in the night, running for his life from Mack Bolan.
He settled into a vacant booth and lifted a finger to one of the bartenders; they knew him here, and he'd soon have his usual drink, Scotch straight up.
The place was busy, the after-movie crowd filling it almost to capacity.
That was good, too, thought Owens.
Bolan would not come in here and start slinging bullets around, not with the chance of hitting a lot of innocent people. Not everybody who came in here was Mafia, after all.
A waitress in a short skirt and low-cut blouse sashayed over to the booth with a drink on a tray. As she set it down, Owens drummed nervously on the table with his fingertips.
"How's about walking over a phone, babe?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Owens, this booth doesn't have a jack and all the other booths are full. You can use the phone behind the bar, though."
He picked up his drink, swallowed half of it, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"No, never mind," he said shakily. "I'll use the pay phone in a minute."
The girl gestured at the glass in his hand.
"Are you going to want a refill?"
He stared for a second at the amber liquid in the glass, then tossed it off.
"Damn straight," he breathed.
The liquor's fire warmed his insides and he suddenly felt a little stronger.
He didn't much like the idea of going into the corridor where the rest rooms were to use the pay phone there, but he didn't have much choice. He could hardly use the bar phone to call any of his friends, asking them to put him up under cover until this thing blew over. That would get ears listening and he didn't want that at all. He was paranoid, sure.
Owens could practically taste his own paranoia. He reminded himself that he had damn good reason to be afraid, on the run as he was from the meanest damn widow-maker to ever hit Chicago.
The waitress came over with his second drink and he disposed of it with one gulp.
Then, gathering what he recognized as alcohol-induced courage, he left the booth and made his way through the crowded, noisy bar to the corridor that opened up behind a curtain of beads on the left-hand wall of the bar.
This was actually the connecting corridor between Jimmy Kidd's and Sheba's. The rest rooms there served both establishments. Three pay phones adorned the wall.
He went to the first phone, dug in his pocket for change and fed coins into the slot.
The dial tone buzzing in his ear was a comforting sound.
He had just lifted his right hand to punch the digits of the number he wanted when strong, hard fingers clamped down upon his right shoulder.
Rush Street runs north of the Loop between Michigan Avenue and State Street and it is about as varied a thoroughfare as anyone could want: numerous bars and clubs, from the top-notch to the sleazy. A multitude of restaurants offered a diversity of ethnic foods. The term "melting pot" could have been coined for Rush Street.